


A Path to Redemption

by CharlotteGoldfinch



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera (1989)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 17:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteGoldfinch/pseuds/CharlotteGoldfinch
Summary: Set directly after the events of Love Never Dies, on the pier of Phantasma, Erik, the infamous Opera Ghost of the Populaire, vows to a now dead Christine that he will raise his son just like the two had discussed. Upon fleeing Coney Island, Erik returns back to Paris, where he raises his son, through all of the pain and heartbreak in the world cannot stop the love for Christine, which will forever refuse to die.





	A Path to Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to do this for a very long time now. Will probably undergo a name change, and will probably be cross posted onto Wattpad?

They say you could hear the cries of little Gustave mourning the loss of his Mother, the late Victomess, Christine de Chagny, from the big top tent on the other side of Phantasma. The cries that shook their way through the theme park, as Mademoiselle Giry and her distraught daughter Meg ran through the crowds, in an effort to escape, from what, would remain their secrets.

The poor soul known as Erik, trying to quieten the boy’s screams, was shoved away by him, still resting on his mother’s breast, sobbing. And then, all at once, the cries stopped, the sobbing ceased, and little Gustave stood up, and with only tearing his face from the lifeless body of his Mother on the floor, did he speak.

“It’s your fault…” He started. “You caused this! You made that _woman _do this! You drove her to murder!” Each sentence he said threw more daggers into Erik’s already twice broken, once mended soul. “I hate you!”

With the final words, he raced down the pier, and ran away.

“I… Did…This…” Erik repeated softly when he was alone, stalking back to Christine on the floor, taking her still warm, yet lifeless hand, and pressing a very soft kiss to the paling skin. “Christine… My dear, my love, the mother to my son…” Erik swallowed a heavy sob threatening to breach from his throat. “I will stay true to my word; I will raise our son, to the best of which I can. I will endeavour to make sure he lives happy. I will make you proud, Christine. I promise you.” Erik stood, a moment later, replaced the mask on his face and left the site of the murder.

And Erik was never seen at the Island again. He fled, with the Boy once more, to start a third chapter of his life, a hopeful path to redemption.

Erik found himself back in Paris, with his son, who was coming round to the realisation that the man who he thought was his father, the Vicomte, Raoul, was not his father. In actuality, his real father was the man once plagued with the name of the Opera Ghost, the infamous Phantom of the Opera. There was no bringing Gustave’s mother back, it was all too late, and there was no changing the facts of his true parentage.

Little Gustave tried his best to be strong, even when the newsstands were plagued with the graceful face of his Mother, and her obituary stamped straight on the front page of every newspaper:

_CHRISTINE DE CHAGNY, NEE DAAE FOUND MURDERED ON CONEY ISLAND._

And sometimes, even with all of Gustave’s will to be strong, it was not enough. Tears threatened, and then spilled over and down the young boy’s cheeks. He placed a hand on the paper stand in front of him, and stood there solemn for a while.

“Hey, kid, are you going to buy that?”

“Yes – Yes, I am. It’s the least I can do. It’s my mother,” Gustave managed to speak. He took the paper from the stand, taking care not to crease photo on the front page, looking in his pocket for the few franc coins he had on his person.

“Your mother was Christine Daae?” The stand worker asked. “Here, take this. I’m sure your father would like to cherish this, and keep her memory alive. Give my condolences to the Vicomte.” The stand worker let Gustave leave without exchanging any money for the paper. Gustave’s lower lip trembled at the mention of the man who he believed to be his father, and let out a short nod. 

“Thank you, sir. And I will.”

With that, Gustave carried the paper carefully back to where Erik and he were living, a small basement apartment, for Erik had never gotten over the ideology of living below the public eye. Erik still believed himself a Monster, a monster who had now killed three people. The first being Joseph Buquet, the second being Ubaldo Piangi, and now, his one love, Christine Daae; although he never pulled the trigger on the gun that fired the fatal shot, he still believed he was at the epicentre of the death. And not only did he think that the acts he had committed branded him a monster, he knew that he was also a monster because of his face. The very same face which once scared away Christine, which then brought him love, and in time, a son.

Gustave laid gentle footsteps on the floorboards as he entered his ‘home’, for his father was playing away at the piano, a mournful sound, which bounced off of the walls. Erik was again at peace, playing a requiem akin to the funeral march. At the sound of the door catching the latch, the music stopped, the scraping of the piano bench echoed through the tiny apartment, and Erik was at Gustave’s side.

“Where were you, you know I don’t like you leaving alone.”

“I wish not to be trapped here forever,” Gustave started. “I can’t live my life below ground for ever. I went to the market area, and received a gift from the local newspaper stand. He gave me this.” Gustave placed the newspaper in Erik’s hands, the face of Christine staring straight back him. Erik recoiled slightly in horror at seeing her face, and the words above the photo that screamed at him. Erik said nothing.

“Do you show no remorse, no guilt? That was my mother. We had to abandon her; there was no funeral, not one with her family at. We were the only family she had left. Nobody was there for her!” Gustave cried out.

“_Silence!_” Erik yelled, throwing the paper to the floor, scaring Gustave in the process. “The last thing I wanted was your mother gone. We were to be here, all three of us, together. Living above ground in a lavish home, where I needn’t be afraid of what people were to think of me. For if your mother was still alive, there would be no need for me to stay here, alone and afraid of what the people of the streets would think of me. And I would only need the love that both of you would give me.”

“And is my love alone not enough for you,” Gustave quizzed. “For I am trying, trying my hardest, to give you all the love that I can, and more – just as what Mother said to me.”

“Boy, no. You mishear and misunderstand.” Erik knelt to the floor, picking up the newspaper and reorganising the papers so they were in order. He stayed on the floor and took little Gustave’s hands in both of his. “Your love is enough, Gustave, believe me when I say that, please. I miss your mother, so dearly, and not having her here right now with the two of us breaks my heart, as I am sure it does yours. But we are the only two left. You, my boy, are a Daae, through and through. Never mind what you were to believe when you believed the Vicomte was your father, for that was a title, a mere façade. You are a Daae – and much like the family name you too, shall be a famous artiste. You have hands holding something similar to the talent of mine own, boy, you showed me how beautiful you could play back on… the island. Don’t hide your talent, Gustave. Let me teach you to be a performer, a composer, a musical genius. Let us show the world that the monster of the Opera Populaire lives on, but is a monster no more. I am turning a new page in my life, beginning a new end to my story. I tutored your mother once, and made her a beautiful songbird. Allow me to give you lessons, please,” Erik finished his speech with a hopeful gleam in his eye, a pleading smile on his lips.

And all Little Gustave could do, was take small steps to the piano in the centre of the room, and lead Erik to stand behind him as he took a seat at the piano and continued playing the mournful notes that filled the room moments before.


End file.
